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Assignment: Seduction
CATHY WILLIAMS
Cathy Williams is originally from Trinidad but has lived in England for a number of years. She currently has a house in Warwickshire which she shares with her husband Richard, her three daughters Charlotte, Olivia and Emma and their pet cat, Salem. She adores writing romantic fiction and would love one of her girls to become a writer, although at the moment she is happy enough if they do their homework and agree not to bicker with one another.
Assignment: Seduction
by
Cathy Williams
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
CHAPTER ONE
IT WAS nine-thirty at night. This was dark, unfamiliar territory and even inside the taxi it was freezing cold. Outside, with the wind rustling wrappers and paper along the street, the detritus of people who couldn’t be bothered to find the nearest bin in which they could deposit their rubbish, it would be an icebox. A menacing, littered icebox. All that was needed now were a couple of howling, rabid dogs and some dustballs to complete the happy scene.
This had better be good.
‘You sure you got the address right, lady?’ The taxi-driver’s eyes met hers in the rear-view mirror. ‘Somebody meeting you at the other end?’ Cos this ain’t the most savoury part of London.’
‘Oh, somebody’s meeting me all right,’ Melissa muttered grimly under her breath. She crossed her slender legs and stared with mounting exasperation out of the window.
Even for him, this was too much. To give her forty minutes’ notice, to drag her from the cosy warmth of her little flat not to mention the tantalising prospect of a ready-made meal curled up in front of the television, on the pretext that he needed to have a meeting with her urgently, didn’t bear thinking about.
In the three years that she had been working for him, Robert Downe’s utter disregard for convention had seen her working until three in the morning, taking notes at meetings conducted in the most unlikely places, being whisked off on his private jet an hour after she had stepped foot through the office door, but when she was home, her time had always been her own.
He demanded total commitment from everyone who worked for him, and from her he expected not only that, but a ready, obliging and preferably thrilled smile on her face to accompany his occasionally outrageous demands. But, as he had airily informed her at her interview, fair was fair. The minute she left the office, she would be absolutely free to shed her working clothes and indulge in whatever took her fancy, without fear that he would invade her privacy with unwanted work requests.
What he had omitted to mention was quite how thoroughly her well-paid, invigorating job would eat into so many hours of the day that the notion of having any sort of coherent, stable, routine private life was almost out of the question.
Her brilliant, temperamental, utterly dedicated boss didn’t possess a nine-to-five mind and he was frankly bewildered by anyone who didn’t share his lack of respect for clocks, watches and anything else that attempted to impose restrictions on the working day.
‘Here we go, lady. Big Al’s. Been in there a couple of times myself.’ There was wistful nostalgia in the cab driver’s voice as he harked back to what was undoubtedly his bad old days, judging from the unappealing sight that greeted her eyes. ‘Looks worse on the outside than it is on the inside. And don’t mind them blokes on the bikes. Gentle as lambs, they are.’
The herd of gentle lambs, some ten of them, began revving their motorbikes. One of them spat forcefully into the gutter, said something in a loud voice and there was a wave of raucous laughter.
I’ll kill him, she thought to herself, even if it means saying goodbye to the best job I’m ever likely to have. How could he have brought me here?
‘Want me to wait for you, just in case your mate ain’t inside?’
‘No.’ Melissa sighed and handed over the fare, including a generous tip just in case she needed him sooner than she thought.
‘Like hanging out with the rough sort, do you?’ The taxi-driver caught her eye in the mirror and winked knowingly, a seedy gesture to which Melissa could find no response that came anywhere near the realms of politeness. Instead of answering, she opened the car door and swung her body outside.
The freezing cold attacked her like a vengeful lover that has been kept waiting for too long, and she pulled her coat tightly around her, shoving her hands into the pockets and walking quickly towards the bar, head down to protect herself from the biting wind. Outside the bar, a couple of loiterers were arguing over something. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw them pause in mid-flow to look at her and although her face registered no fear whatsoever, a thread of clammy apprehension uncurled inside her in sickening waves.
She pushed open the door and was greeted by a blast of wailing country music, a fog of smoke and the deafening babble of voices. In the middle of the room, a circular bar held sway, and around it was draped a collection of abnormally hairy men, largely dressed in faded denim. Sprinkled in between these flowers of shy beauty was a selection of blondes, mostly drinking out of bottles. Melissa had to steel herself against making an involuntary moue of distaste.
Towards the far end of the room, which was much bigger inside than it appeared on the outside, were three pool tables. In the background, Tammy Wynette continued to lament the passing of love.
It took a matter of seconds to locate the object of her irritation and she strode towards him, head held high, heels clicking purposefully on the wooden floor, hands still thrust into the pockets of her coat, tan-and-navy bag firmly secured under her arm.
A number of curious eyes followed her path across the room until she stopped, glaring, in front of her boss, legend in financial circles, talented, eccentric creator of vast wealth from little more than a background selling fish at Billingsgate Market with his father at the age of twelve, breaker of women’s hearts, many of which she personally had had to deal with when love’s first passion had grown bored and restless.
He was holding court at the far end of the room. He had pushed his chair away from the table, the better to accommodate his long legs and appeared to have his audience enraptured with whatever he was saying.
Somewhere very deep inside her, she could feel the full force of his overwhelming personality and his devilish good looks register on her consciousness. As it always did. In all the time she had worked for Robert Downe, he still had the power to unsettle her simply by the way he looked.
He was shockingly, no scandalously, good-looking. His hair was black and very short and his eyes were deep midnight blue, the blue of the sky when daylight has all but left and darkness is beginning to spread its wings. Sexy eyes. She might be immune to him but she had always reluctantly conceded the appeal he had over the female sex. Whatever their marital status, whatever their age, height, weight, class, profession or personality, his mere presence had always been enough to turn heads.
‘You’re late,’ were his opening words, while three pairs of eyes settled on the petite, olive-skinned brunette with interest. Melissa ignored them all and focused her slanting brown eyes on her boss.
‘Would you mind telling me what was so important that you had to drag me out of my warm flat, halfway across London at this time of the night? An urgent meeting, I recall you saying?’ She tilted her small head meaningfully, and her thick, straight brown hair which she had left untied in her haste to meet her boss, swung against one shoulder. ‘Strange, but the music is so loud here that I can’t see how we could possibly have a conversation, never mind conduct a business meeting.’
It was one of her boss’s occasional grumbles that no one, but no one, spoke to him as irreverently as she did, but it was, she knew from experience, the only way to deal with some of his more flamboyant moods. She worked too closely with him to be daunted by his forcefulness and anyway, it would have been out of character for her to tiptoe around him. In her own self-contained way, she was every bit as forceful as her boss.
‘Whoa!’ There were cries of delight all round and Robert flashed her a pained expression which she knew meant nothing at all. Had he forgotten that she had seen him in action over the years and knew that he was as humble and vulnerable as a barracuda on the prowl?
‘See what I have to put up with?’ he addressed no one in particular, and Melissa folded her arms and looked at him, gimlet-eyed.
‘Yeah. Well, it beats Allie at the office,’ one of the bearded men commented morosely. ‘Sixty if a day and a shrew with it. Surprised I ever get any work done.’
‘You don’t work, mate. You draw.’
‘You’re an artist?’ Melissa asked, side-tracked.
‘Architect. For my sins.’
‘With a face like that,’ Robert said gravely, ‘he had to go in for a job that kept him away from the public eye.’
Melissa felt a wicked urge to smile and had to remind herself that there was nothing to smile about because she had been rudely yanked from her privacy for what was fast appearing to be no reason at all. That was the problem with Robert Downe. He could move from infuriating to funny in the space of seconds with no recovery period in between.
‘At least yours truly here doesn’t have to rely on pretty-boy looks to get places,’ he replied, grinning at Robert and winking at Melissa.
‘Oh, my loyal secretary doesn’t find me in the slightest bit good-looking, do you, Mellie?’ He gave her one of those scorching stares from under his lashes. It was a look she had seen him direct at his leggy beauties from time to time, and she raised one eyebrow cynically.
‘Which,’ she said to her small audience, ‘is why I’m still working for him.’
‘You wouldn’t swap me for all the tea in China. You know that,’ he said huskily and she clicked her tongue impatiently.
‘Work?’ she reminded him. ‘The reason I’m here?’
‘Oh, if you must. Don’t you want to relax for a few minutes?’ He flashed her a winning smile which she returned with a warning frown. ‘It’s Harry’s birthday today,’ he said, tilting his head in the direction of a bearded hulk at the bar, and drinking straight out of the bottle. ‘The big forty. The daddy of the lot. We’ve got a bit of a surprise for him.’ Robert leaned over confidentially.
Melissa felt a twinge of unease at his closeness. Without consciously realising it, the lines between them were important to her. She needed the sanctuary of her home life, the untouchability of her privacy to keep his forceful personality at bay. She could handle him in a work capacity, where she was sure of herself and of her role but here, in a darkened bar, surrounded by his cronies, in an environment that stripped them of the invisible labels that defined them both, she realised that she was exposed and vulnerable in a way she didn’t care for.
‘Birthday cake,’ Robert confided. ‘Of the surprise variety. You know, one of those large affairs that house an attractive semi-clad woman who’s a dab hand at a song-and-dance routine.’
‘Oh, so nothing very chauvinistic then,’ she said tartly. ‘Is that why I’m here, Robert?’
‘No, no, no!’ He waved his hand vaguely at her. ‘You’re worse than a minder,’ he muttered ungallantly under his breath, while his friends watched them, avidly curious. ‘Face of an angel, heart of a born dictator.’
Melissa flushed. Only because you don’t know me, she wanted to retort, but instead she drew in a deep, steadying breath.
‘Okay, we’ll use Al’s office. Half an hour and you can be on your way, back home so that you can tuck yourself neatly into bed and settle down for the night.’ He stood up, towering over her, six foot one of sheer, unbridled masculinity.
Wealth had given him access to whatever he wanted. He could afford to liberally adorn his house with the most expensive paintings and rugs and he frequently indulged a taste for opera which seemed so out of keeping in someone who had probably never been to the theatre until he was a man, let alone an opera. But however much money and power he wielded, neither could subdue that hard restless edge which could be as intimidating to adversaries as it could be sexually arousing to women.
He had fought every inch of his way up and it showed in the aggressive, uncompromising angles of his face. He looked like a man who was afraid of nothing. In fact, the opposite—a man who was accustomed to instilling fear whenever it suited his purposes.
Happily, Melissa was thoroughly unimpressed by this particular quality. She looked up at him, one eyebrow expressively raised as he manoeuvred his way around the table and the clutter of chairs.
‘When’s the wedding, Robbo?’ one of his friends asked and there was a round of bawdy laughter.
Melissa watched as dark color surged into her boss’s face and for a few seconds, she witnessed one of those rare occasions when he appeared to be rendered temporarily speechless. It didn’t last long.
‘Ah, I wouldn’t want to end up like you lot for all the money in the world. Henpecked, the lot of you!’ He grinned cheerfully at them.
‘That’s only because you haven’t found the right woman to henpeck you into blissful submission. Yet. Although, the little lady next to you does show…’
‘Right. Think I’ll leave you bunch on that high note. Back out in an hour.’ He reached down to the bottle on the table and then straightened with it loosely in his hand.
From a couple of feet away, Melissa watched him with peculiar intensity. Over the years, she had seen a fair amount of him outside work, but never totally relaxed as he was here. She had seen him in his capacity as her boss, entertaining clients, had even accidentally met him at the theatre once in the company of one of his glamour women. Always, he had been immaculately and expensively dressed in one of his many hand-tailored suits, only that primitive sensuality giving away his unpolished background.
Here, he was in faded jeans and a checked shirt which hung over the waistband and was rolled to the elbows, exposing his sinewy forearms. She looked away, idiotically ruffled by his blatant masculinity.
Al’s office turned out to be a smart little affair, at odds with the rough-and-ready atmosphere outside. There was a small wooden desk, on which a computer terminal lay at rest and on another thin desk which protruded at right angles from this, were a fax machine, two telephones and several files, neatly stacked. The carpet was thick and cream and the walls were painted an unusual shade of green that gave the room a pleasant, leafy atmosphere. Robert took the chair behind the desk and gestured for Melissa to take a seat on one of the two facing him.
She had already removed her coat and draped it over the back of the spare chair. Now, she waited in silence, hands folded on her lap, legs crossed, for her boss to fill her in on whatever he had summoned her to say.
At least the slightly wild look had vanished from his face. At this moment in time, an unpredictable boss was something she could do without. In some of her more introspective moments, it occurred to her that there was something sad about her inability to cope with any shows of excessive behaviour. Hysterics, drunkenness, passion, intensity, they all fell into the same uncomfortable category, one that she was not equipped to handle. Restraint had been her mother’s guiding principle and while a part of Melissa resented the limitations that placed on her behaviour, she was incapable of changing it.
‘So,’ he drawled, leaning back into the chair, which obligingly tilted back, affording him ample room to stretch his denim-covered legs onto the side of the desk. He linked his fingers together behind his head and proceeded to stare at her.
‘What do you think of my schoolyard friends?’
Melissa looked steadily at him. ‘They seemed very likeable.’
‘My perfect model of restraint,’ he said lazily, his eyes half closed as he continued to survey her. ‘Do you ever shed your secretarial garb?’ he enquired.
Melissa stared blankly at the wall behind him. This amused, frankly insolent line of enquiry was something she thought he had left behind a long time ago. When she had first started working for him, he had been intrigued by her personality. Intrigued that someone who was only twenty-two could be so self-contained, so cool, so collected.
He had seen nothing amiss in probing into her private life, asking questions about her likes and dislikes, her past, her background, even her sex life. It hadn’t taken her long to inform him that her personal life had nothing to do with him, after which he had ceased peppering his polite see-you-in-the-morning chitchat with seemingly innocuous but bitingly curious questions about what she would be getting up to later on.
‘Okay, okay!’ He raised both his hands in a mock gesture of defeat. ‘I forgot. Remarks like that are strictly off limits! I can tell from that frozen look on your face!’ But he was grinning, unperturbed by the fact that her face had remained rigidly unyielding. ‘Work,’ he carried on. ‘I would have saved this for tomorrow, but as you know I’m off to New York in the morning and won’t be back for a week, and this can’t keep.’
‘You could have telephoned me with your instructions,’ Melissa pointed out.
‘True. But it would have spoilt the surprise.’
A little thread of alarm shot down her spine. She didn’t like his use of the word surprise nor did she like the expression on his face when he said it. He looked quietly satisfied.
‘What surprise?’ she volunteered tentatively. Surprises were something else she didn’t much care for. How much her mother had to answer for! Without a husband, Melissa had always known that life couldn’t have been easy for her mother, not least because the past had made her bitter and suspicious of other people and their motives.
Having watched her marriage finally crack under the weight of her second husband’s rampant womanising, she had seen it as her divine mission to instil in her daughter a healthy disrespect for anything roughly resembling impulsive behaviour. Impulse, she was fond of saying, had been the downfall of your stepfather. Impulse, she would preach, shaking her head and pursing her lips into a thin line, had been the devil in disguise.
In fact, recklessness, in Melissa’s mind, had come to rank as a grievous sin, punishable by something vague, unformed but definitely awful. By the time adulthood had arrived and with it an ability to put things into perspective, her mother had died and was beyond the reach of questions, and her daily homilies had turned into ingrained truths, stronger than reason and more frustratingly powerful than logic.
‘There’s a little job in the offing,’ he said, watching her. ‘Have you got a current passport?’
‘You know I have,’ Melissa answered, at a loss to know why she had to be called halfway across London to be told this.
‘A good friend who can look after your flat for a while? You know, feed the goldfish, water the plants, et cetera.’
‘I don’t have any goldfish.’ She gave him a perplexed frown. ‘Just like I don’t have a clue where this is leading. I’m sure the plants can survive for a couple of days anyway.’
Ominously, he sat forward and rested his chin on the tips of his joined fingers. ‘The time scale is a little broader than that,’ he informed her. ‘A couple of months rather than a couple of days. And guess what, here’s the really big surprise, you’re going home. Back home to Trinidad. A chance to relive all those great childhood memories.’ He sat back with an expression of triumph on his face. ‘Now how’s that for a surprise!’
CHAPTER TWO
MELISSA had ten days in which to arrange the technicalities of putting her life in England on hold for two months, and in which to contemplate the essential difference between surprise and shock.
Surprise, she could have pointed out, is when you open the door to your flat, thinking that the world has forgotten your birthday, only to be welcomed by all your friends and the sound of popping champagne corks.
Shock, on the other hand, is when your boss tells you that a gem of an idea which he’s been nurturing from seed for months, little expecting it to ever really go ahead, has taken root, that his little gem of an idea involves an island you barely remember and rather wouldn’t in any case and that you’ll be going there with him on business.
‘You never mentioned this to me,’ was all Melissa could find to say after he had made his announcement.
‘Excuse me while I reach for my hankie so that you can mop up your tears of delight at my little bombshell.’
Bombshell, she had thought, was the operative word, even though she had kept a steady smile on her face while she tried to formulate a few reasons why she couldn’t possibly go with him.
Trinidad, sun-soaked, slow-moving, lush paradise, belonged to her past. When she thought of it, she could barely conjure up memories of all those years she had spent there between the ages of five and eleven, when her stepfather had been posted on the island with the oil company for which he had worked. All she could remember were the rows between her parents. Long, bitter arguments that seemed to rage from one day into the other, with small breaks in between. As she had got older, the reason for the rows had become clear and with understanding came a new, deeper reason to run and hide from the shouting and the angry accusations and counter accusations.
She always felt that her aversion to confrontations stemmed from those childhood experiences when the raised voices of her mother and her stepfather had been enough to reduce her to a curled ball taking refuge in the corner of a room somewhere.
Of course, those memories were a secret, private place she shared with no one, least of all her boss.
‘I couldn’t possibly leave the country for months on end,’ she had objected.
‘It’s eight weeks, not months on end.’
‘What would happen to my flat?’ She had only been a few seconds into her objections and she could see that already his temper was beginning to fray at the edges. ‘I wouldn’t feel happy about leaving it unoccupied for months.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because it might be broken into.’
‘It might be broken into even when you’re in it.’
